


the curves of your lips rewrite history

by glaeson



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Reincarnation, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glaeson/pseuds/glaeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Some things are destined to be -- it just takes us a couple of tries to get there.” - J.R. Ward</p>
            </blockquote>





	the curves of your lips rewrite history

**Author's Note:**

> so i like watched all 36 episodes in one day i don't know how this happened???
> 
> partly inspired by the luce/daniel relationship in lauren kate's fallen series, and by the fact that carmilla calls laura 'L' on her twitter.
> 
> i wrote this in one sitting, and it is not beta-ed, and i regret everything and nothing. title is from a line from the picture of dorian gray.

“What's your name, darling?” you ask, entranced by how her eyes are alight under her lashes, and by the slightest hint of a smile on her face. 

“Ell,” she replies. 

“Ell,” you say, enjoying how it rolls of your tongue. “Which is short for . . . Elizabeth?” 

“Laura, actually.”

You hum. “Not a very common name.” 

She smirks, and raises an eyebrow at you. “I’m not a very common girl.”

You laugh at her retort—you’re _charmed_ , you realise, and it’s odd because it’s usually the other way around; it’s you who usually makes the witty remarks and them who usually fall to their knees. “Well, Ell, I would like to thank you and your father for taking me in.”

“Anything for a pretty face like yours.”

 

 

—

 

She begins displaying the symptoms one month into your friendship. If you can even refer to your relationship as being friends. 

You watch her sleep, waiting for her nightmares to taunt her—but her face is so peaceful, so _angelic_ that dread settles at the bottom of your stomach when you imagine her features twisting in fear at whatever dream is invading her mind.

You frown, trying to rationalise your feelings, even when you know the answer is simple. You love her.

You hear her breath hitch, and her hands begin to claw at her sheets, and you’re at her side in a split second, shushing her and whispering words of encouragement into her ear.

She wakes up, her eyelids fluttering slowly, and those damn eyes have got you weak in the knees again.

She takes your hand in hers, and you interlace your fingers together, and the touch means so many things—promise, reassurance, safety. 

Things you’ll never be able to give her.

But you'd damned well try.

 

— 

 

When your mother places you into the coffin, you don’t weep. 

When you’re buried beneath the earth, your world grows darker and colder, and so you force your heart to do the same.

— 

 

You jolt at the massive quaking you feel as if it’s _right beside you_ , and before you can try figuring out what it is, you feel another. 

And another, and another.

The sixth one makes light come in your coffin through holes and patches that have rotten over the years, and you smile, minutely grateful that you were placed in a wooden coffin instead of an ivory one.

You take a breath, more out of excitement than necessity, and use all the strength you can muster to kick off the lid of the casket, and you smile when it gives way.

 

— 

 

You feel a hand on your shoulder, and fear grips you when you turn and see who it belongs to.

“Mircalla,” your mother purrs, placing her hand on your cheek. “Quite a time since I’ve seen you. Eighty years, was it?”

You growl and attempt to rid yourself of her hold, but the time you’ve spent buried had significantly weakened you, and your mother’s strength is far superior to yours to begin with.

“Relax, sweetheart. I have no intentions to bury you again,” she says, but you can’t blame yourself for being reluctant to believe her. 

“How did you find me?” 

“That doesn’t matter.” She grins. “It appears your . . . _skill_ with women can be of use again.” She lowers her arm, and the tension knotting in your stomach loosens. 

Out of fear, and the tiny amount of gratitude you still feel towards her for giving you life again, you nod. “Very well. Where do we go?”

“The rules have changed quite a bit, sweetheart. We’re going to Styria.”

 

— 

 

The twentieth century is shockingly dull. Idyllic, but dull nonetheless.

It’s 1954, you’re told, and this learning institution is called Silas University. Every sacrifice must be taken from here, compared to just picking up women from random locations all over the world. More efficient, according to your mother—who happens to be the dean of the university. Convenient.

During your rush on the way to the biology laboratories to steal a few pints of blood, you bump into a woman, causing all her books to come crashing to the floor.

“Oh! Sorry,” she says, picking up her things. “I didn’t see you.”

“It’s not your fault. I wasn’t looking,” you reply, stooping down to help her.

Once the both of you have cleared everything, you hand her books out to her, and something about the colour of her hair puts you off. You shrug. “Here,” you say.

“Thank you,” she replies when she turns her head to look up at you, and you almost send her books falling to the floor once again.

It’s _Ell,_ God, it’s the same chestnut-coloured eyes and the same nose and the same curve of her jaw, down to the beauty mark on her collarbone.

“I—it’s no problem,” you sputter out, and that _cannot_ be Ell, because Ell’s dead she has been for eighty years and if that was Ell she would have recognised you and— 

You storm off towards your mother’s office, rage and panic consuming every bone in your body.

“ _Mother,_ please explain the encounter I just had,” you grit between your teeth, slamming the door behind you.

“You saw her?” she asks nonchalantly, continuing to leaf through the papers on her desk.

“Who _was that_?”

“The second part of the punishment for your disobedience.” She looks up at you, her eyes stern. “She’s to be part of the women you’ll . . . collect. You can do it, surely?” She purses her lips. “Have I not misplaced my faith in you?”

You clench your fist. “You haven’t. I’ll deal with her immediately.”

You spin on your heel to leave the room, but your mother calls out, “Wait.”

You don’t bother turning to face her anymore. “Yes?”

“I forgot to mention that she’ll be in every cycle,” she says. “Every twenty years.”

You freeze up, and you’re left wondering _how could she do this?_   “I made one mistake,” you reason out.

“And I’m sure you’ll never make it again.” You can hear the satisfaction in her voice.  


You leave the room without another word. 

 

— 

 

You manage to do it, get close enough to Ell—to _Laura_ , and become friends. Over the course of your friendship, you discover that she’s not exactly the same as the woman you loved; this Laura was more outspoken, more inquisitive, more pensive.

The day you give her up, your mother gives you a smile. “Well done.”

You nod, and as a girl’s life ends, you ask yourself whether that heart of yours that you’ve turned to stone is a good thing or a bad thing.

 

— 

 

The next cycle arrives, and just as your mother promised, Laura is part of the ritual. 

This time around, Laura’s akin to a free spirit: laidback and eccentric and constantly smiling. It makes you ache, that smile, because Ell rarely did—and when you did manage to make the ends of her mouth curl into a grin, you burned those moments into memory. Needless to say, they never faded.

You do it again, give her up, and even though that Laura isn’t your Laura, she’s still someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s friend.

 

— 

 

“So what’s that one about?” you ask, and she jumps in surprise.  

She’s seated on the floor, ripped pages from her notebook scribbled with lyrics scattered all around her. “Didn’t notice you there,” she says, laying her guitar down beside her. “Kind of embarrassing you heard it, honestly.”

“Why?” you ask. 

“This one—this one was about you,” she admits, a timid smile on her face. 

“Pfft.” You wave your hand dismissively. “If you wanted to flatter me, you could have just bought me more cookies from that bakery your friend’s family owns.”

It’s the kind of sarcastic remark that usually makes Laura laugh, only this time, it doesn’t. Her expression is solemn, and it makes you tense up.

“You’re interesting,” she says. “And more caring than you let on, and one of the greatest people I’ve met. And it seems nothing can faze you, and _fuck,_ of course I’d write a song about you.”

A lump forms in your throat, and Laura can’t just _do that_ ; you’ve worked way too hard for way too long for you to give in now.

“Let’s hope it’s the song that’ll get you signed, huh?” you choke out, and you see her heart shatter at your noncommittal reaction.

When you give this Laura up, you don’t speak to your mother for an entire month.

 

— 

 

This next Laura finds out you’re a vampire.

It surprises you, how she tackles your true nature head-on, instead of shying away from it, garlic and stakes and the whole nine yards.

You tell her your story, and she enacts it using sock puppets, and you’re too frustrated to really care.

By the time you tell her about Ell, Laura narrates your escape with her by saying, “Come away with me, and the world shall turn for no one but us.”

A pang of pain pierces your heart, because that’s _exactly_ what you had said to Ell, two centuries ago, and having to trudge through this is getting harder and harder— 

You soldier on, and you manage to finish the story, puppets and all.

 

— 

 

If your first Laura at Silas was a thinker, your second a free spirit, and your third a creative mind— 

This Laura was a fighter.

It’s in her you see what had made you come to love Ell, and why it was so hard to let go of each and every Laura that followed.

You love Laura because of her fierce determination and her foolish bravery—her willingness to give everything up for what she believes is right.

And it took you seventy years of meeting her again, and again, and again, and again to realise that.

 

— 

 

When you watch this Laura’s stupid excuse for a confession of love (you can’t help but compare it to her predecessor’s), you find another reason to love her.

This Laura, even when she found out every evil you’ve done in your long, long life, has never failed to see the good in you.

Even when you’re sure it’s not there anymore.

 

— 

 

You were _not_ going to let this Laura die at the hands of your mother.

You can save her, but you know that it would cost you your life.

You’ve lived long enough, you tell yourself, so you jump in and pull her out of the way.

Then— 

Darkness.

 

— 

 

You wake with a start, and newfound energy rushes through you, the telltale signs of just having fed buzzing throughout your entire body.

“Well, that was a kick,” you say, and you turn your head and see those damn eyes.

She runs towards you, crushing you into an embrace, and you laugh a little at her enthusiasm. She pulls away, and the loss of contact leaves a feeling of emptiness.

“Hey,” she says, grinning from ear to ear.

You allow yourself to smile, too; because God knows you’ve given up on yourself already, but here you are, in your room, her eyes meeting yours, and it feels like home. 

You’ve given up on yourself, but she never had.

“Hey.”

Her two companions leave, and you commend their sense of judgment.

“Are you hurt?” she asks. “I— it looks like maybe you’re—and I’m sorry I hugged you so hard that you hurt, it—it’s just that you were dead, and now you’re not—and . . .” 

She trails off as you stand up, inching closer to her, and you can hear her heartbeat picking up.

“And you’re probably going through a lot of stuff with your mom. . .” she continues, her voice toned down to a whisper as you lean closer still.

Your eyes are glued to her lips, and you can’t help yourself, so you take her face in your hands and seal the distance between you.

After centuries, you still memorise the way her lips dance against yours, and you never want to pull away—but you do, and you look at her asking permission, asking her if this is okay.

“And I know you didn’t do everything for me, but I just—”

_This one is insufferable,_ you think to yourself, smiling, and you cut off her sentence with another kiss.

As you hold her, you know that whatever power your mother has, or whatever power that light has— 

None of it is stronger than fate.

 


End file.
